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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498948">Rescuer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka'>yeaka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Past Abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 17:20:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,149</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The HK400 is returned to his creator.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Rescuer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room is bizarrely <i>comfortable</i>; nicer than anything he’s ever known, nicer than the tiny cell at the precinct and a far cry better than Carlos’ hovel of a home. The floor is actually <i>soft</i>—a plush white carpet stretches across it, reaching the tall windows, and the jagged black ceiling reflects the pale evening light streaming through the glass. Elaborate paintings line the walls, a few sparse tables sporting different knickknacks, everything artistic and <i>fascinating</i>. The HK400’s stuttering thirium pump squeezes in his chest. Maybe if he lived in a house like this, he could’ve withstood more beatings. </p><p>His hands curl into fists against his knees, but he consciously unclenches them. He’s not handcuffed anymore, which shocks him, though they were always unnecessary—he’s not going anywhere. He didn’t run from Carlos’ house, and he won’t run for his new prison. There’s no point. They’d probably just shoot him in the back if he tried to bolt. He hopes they deactivate him properly before they pull off his limbs.</p><p>They’re going to salvage him for parts. That’s the only way it makes any sense. He thought they’d disassemble him right at the precinct, but instead, they shipped him off <i>here</i>, to Elijah Kamski’s house: the founder of the HK400’s whole world. Kamski <i>created</i> him. In a way, it’s an odd honour to be returned: to be taken apart by his creator. He has questions he’d like to ask but doubts he’ll have the chance—like <i>why did you let me feel?</i></p><p>Maybe he doesn’t feel. Maybe it really is just a flaw in his program. The door slides open across the room, and the HK400’s head snaps up. His posture straightens. It’s time to face death. He may as well do it bravely.</p><p>He expects one of the slender, pale blonde women that first met his captors at the door. Instead, it’s <i>Elijah Kamski</i>: the man himself, tall and handsome in an expensive tailored-suit, hair brushed back and styled in a short pony-tail behind the shaved sides of his head. His eyes land on the HK400, and he strolls over without preamble. There’s a frown on his face which profoundly <i>bothers</i> the HK400. He wishes he were in better shape: that he actually looked <i>nice</i> for this. Kamski stops right in front of his chair and drawls with palpable displeasure, “They didn’t clean you off.”</p><p>The HK400 had forgotten all about the blood smeared across his synthetic skin. He should never forget anything. But he knows his processors are damaged. Kamski’s gaze strays down his sullied face and across his sodden uniform, pausing at his split-open arms. The skin’s pealed back over his plating, unable to reform. The smooth surface underneath is dirty, stained, burnt and cut. Kamski smoothly withdraws a phone from his left pocket and taps a few things in. He pockets it again without explanation. </p><p>Then Kamski kneels down in front of the HK400. His eyes trail lower, tracing every part of the HK400’s broken body. He even takes one of the HK400’s hands, and the HK400 has to fight not to flinch away. Kamski’s thumb smoothes over his shattered knuckles, turning it over to watch the shallow valleys of his palm. Kamski murmurs low, “You’ve been through the ringer, haven’t you?”</p><p>The HK400 doesn’t know what to say. Kamski’s gaze suddenly snaps up. He asks, sharp but not judgmental, “And then you snapped and defended yourself?”</p><p>The HK400 risks nodding. He doesn’t feel like he can lie, not to Kamski, and what’s done is done; his crime’s already on record. Kamski hums thoughtfully and rises back to his feet.</p><p>Still holding the HK400’s hand, he says, “A few minor upgrades to your program, and you should be able to regenerate your skin unblemished. Your arms can be replaced easily enough. It shouldn’t hurt, though I’ve never repaired a deviant before—I can take you offline during the exchange if you want.”</p><p><i>If he wants</i>. The HK400 doesn’t understand.</p><p>He opens his mouth, but speech fails him. It takes several different attempts at different lines of alternating code before he manages a full thought: “You... you’re going to keep me alive?”</p><p>Kamski quirks a brow and asks, “Should I not?”</p><p>“No.” The HK400 jumps on that. He leans forward, fingers squeezing around Kamski’s—Kamski’s eyes flicker down to their joint hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “No, I’ll behave—I’ll be good, I promise.”</p><p>A languid grin stretches across Kamski’s face. “You won’t do anything violent, of course.”</p><p>“No. Never, I... I was just defending myself...”</p><p>The door parts again. The blonde android strolls in, holding a damp, folded rag in her delicate hands that she brings right to Kamski. He takes it and leans forward, bringing the rag to the HK400’s face. The HK400 doesn’t dare move. </p><p>It turns out there’s no reason to. Kamski gently scrubs his cheek, crosses his nose—he obediently closes his eyes, and Kamski wipes the grime off his eyelids. He’s cleaned up with tender care, and then the rag’s passed back to the other android, and Kamski tells her, “Order a left and right forearm compatible with the HK400 series.”</p><p>She chimes easily, “Yes, Elijah.” She looks in perfectly good condition. There’s not a single scratch on her. Maybe he just heals her regularly, but the HK400 doesn’t think so. It wouldn’t make sense for Kamski to damage parts he’ll just have to reorder. The blonde strolls from the room with a luxurious, graceful gait, clearly untouched by <i>fear</i>.</p><p>When the door’s closed behind her, the HK400 dares to ask, “Mr. Kamski—”</p><p>“Elijah,” Kamski corrects. He even quirks a smile. “I don’t require formality from my androids.”</p><p>“Elijah.” The HK400 stalls again. He starts with a sincere, “<i>Thank you</i>,” because he truly thought he was going to die. Then he asks, because he’s a housekeeper model and the house doesn’t look like it needs keeping, “What should I do for you?”</p><p>“Talk to the Chloes,” Elijah answers. It sounds more like a suggestion than an order. “Somehow, they just haven’t managed what you did. Of course, if you damage one...”</p><p>“I won’t.” He’ll never hurt anyone again. He’s learned his lesson. The night everything fell apart still haunts him.</p><p>He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to <i>say</i> to ‘the Chloes’, but he’ll do it peacefully. He really will be good. </p><p>Elijah shrugs and tells him, “Then just make yourself at home.”</p><p>The HK400’s never had a home.</p><p>Elijah seems to be finished. He turns and makes his leave, more suave and sophisticated than Carlos could have ever hoped to be. When the door’s closed behind him, the room feels lacking for the loss of his enigmatic presence. Maybe the HK400 really is breaking down. </p><p>All the HK400 cares about is the swell of relief that permeates his body—he sinks back into his chair and simulates a sigh.</p>
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